It was 2 a.m. Marcus had just wiped down the fry station when headlights swept the lot—slow, deliberate. The car was a black 1980s Cadillac hearse, complete with velvet curtains in the back windows. It pulled up to the speaker box, and a voice crackled through: “Large black coffee. Nothing else.”
“He was a truck driver,” she continued. “Drove an eighteen-wheeler for forty years. Used to say the best part of his day was the drive-thru—something normal after being up so high for so long.” drive thru window height
The sports car with the college kid: window too high. The kid had to unbuckle and half-rise from his bucket seat, fumbling cash with his fingertips. “Sorry,” he kept saying, as if the architecture were his fault. It was 2 a
“Hold on,” he said. He stepped out onto the stool, bringing himself to the hearse’s window level. For the first time that night, he and a customer were face-to-face. It pulled up to the speaker box, and